Bick Skruth on the Belle Isle Camaro Crash

Bick Skruth is an experienced racer, author, and master jock strap rebuilder. He is the Editor-at-Awesome for True Shit About Cars and contributes to several other web sites, including our own.

Hello, only people the automakers would give a candy-striped shit about if they had any clue what they were doing but they don’t! Today’s post comes from the True Shit About Cars Department of I Told You So, with the news that yet another inferior so-called journalist has driven yet another inferior so-called car straight into yet another inferior so-called concrete wall. The incident occurred over the weekend, when General Motors, whose imminent and inevitable demise we used to cover on these very pages until all of our readers got bored and went away, decided to reveal the new Camaro not in front of a qualified group of real hard-nosed awesome-haired serious journalists, race drivers and 2600 subscribers like yours truly, but instead in front of a crowd of sycophantic knuckle-dragging beer-swilling spouse-abusing Camaro owners and a select few ass-licking hacks who could be counted on to nod like bobbleheads and tweet like #twelveyearolds as payment for their limited-edition numbered press kits and unlimited sushi, all of whom were predictably impressed on command as GM rolled out what was basically a fifth-generation Camaro with the edges sanded off. Assmankers.

An uncrashed 2016 Camaro prorotype, yesterday

Naturally, T-SAC was not invited to the 2016 Camaro reveal, which should come as no surprise: The event involved driving so-called “engineering prototypes” on a so-called “Grand Prix track” in a so-called “lead-and-follow” format. GM would never dare invite someone like me, who could lead so fast in his totally awesome Accord that no Camaro, no matter how talented the so-called “racing driver” behind the wheel, could possibly keep up. Yes, I’ve driven at Belle Isle. As for the rumor that Helio Castroneves once burst into tears when he saw the lap time I set in my absofucking brilliant Honda Accord, and that the City of Detroit threatened me with disembowelment should I ever speak about it for fear that I would scare every legitimate racing driver away from the Belle Isle Grand Prix, well, I just can’t comment on that, can I? But I’m sure that had something to do with GM snubbing us, though it might also be somewhat tangentially related to the time my totally-awesome driving caused my totally-hot totally-ex-girlfriend to totally make a little poo in the passenger seat of a Saturn Astra press car, a minor offense about which neither Ford, Honda, Tesla, Toyota, Chrysler, Bentley, Audi nor Lotus made a big deal when it happened in their vehicles. (Full disclosure: Mazda never even noticed. Monkeywankers.)

At the driving event, Chevrolet let a bunch of moderately-talented autojournos, their bellies full of the finest shrimp the Detroit River had to offer, take laps in lightly-camoflaged Camaros, and naturally, the inevitable happened: Someone stuffed it. Knowing that T-SAC would inevitably expose this so-called writer, who for the same of anonymity we shall refer to as George Patrick, the unfortunate half-talent decided to write “The Truth” about his crash. Let’s just analyze this so-called account, shall we?

“But as I came up on one corner, I made a mistake, took a line that was all wrong and braked far later than I should have, inducing terminal understeer.”

Anyone who knows jack shit about cars and driving can see right through this cellophane-thin veneer of complete and total bullpoopy. How do we, the Annointed People, know Mr. Patrick is full of excrement? Listen, losers, if you have to ask that question, then you sure as aytch-eee-double-hockey-stick don’t deserve an answer. All I can say is that the people who read T-SAC, the beautiful awesome-haired rock-star people who actually know what the hell they are talking about, don’t need an explanation. They know what really happened just as well as I do. We’ll leave the drooling masses who read Jaloptoblog to wonder why. Lynxfellators.

Of course, we know what would have happened if General Motors had been smart enough to invite me to this so-called event: I’ve have flown right past the lead Z28 and put some real heat in that Camaro’s tires, setting a new lap record and still having time to bang every attendee’s wife before the rest of the drivers made it to the finish line. (That’s right, mortals: I’m as quick between the sheets as I am behind the wheel.) And my in-car video sure as frick wouldn’t just parrot the “lighter and more nimble” line fed to the hacks by GM’s PR flacks. I’d have given you an honest assessment of what that over-blown drag-racer was all about, whether GM liked it or not. I’d have said the True Shit about that car (and George, baby, I’m sure I would have been asked to join you out there on the sidewalk). But of course, GM doesn’t want that sort of Truth out there. They have cars to sell, and they need the so called “automotive press” to help them sell them. Batlickers.

Not that any of this matters, because automotive journalism is dead. What passes for reporting these days is nothing more than a bunch of mindless, soulless, dickless, useless fishdinglers willing to be led by the nose to the next first-class dog-and-pony show so they can gobble shrimp like trained clubbed seals while the poor blue-collar slobs who actually buy cars (and never the cars these useless platitards waste their time writing about) pick up the tab in the form of another thirty bucks per month tacked on to a car payment that they can only afford by working three jobs and having their wife strip on the weekends while they stay home with the kids. The whole world is a hopeless cesspool of disappointment, despair and sexual denial, filled with whining carbon-based shit machines desperately hoping for one little shred of entertainment before their souls are sucked into the massive void of nothingness that lies ahead once we stop wasting our worthless time and surrender to the eternal darkness that awaits us all. You all fucking suck. Every last fucking one of you. Except, of course, for my readers, who are the most amazing and funniest and brightest and prettiest and most aesthetically fulfilled people on this otherwise sad, pathetic, pointless planet.